The Ache In His Soul
by TyphoonBaby
Summary: Three years. It took him three years to grieve, three years to feel and three years to visit all the sites of their greatest busts. Now, it was time to move on, not forget, but simply to make headway in putting his life back together. He thought that he would be able to put this all behind him after visiting the pool...he was wrong. Warning! Major character death.


Chlorine. The smell of such a chemical often brought on memories of fun days at the sports center as a child. Not for him however, the smell of chlorine did not bring on a sense of bittersweet nostalgia for john Watson. On the contrary, it made his stomach churn with the bile that was ready to enter his throat and exit his mouth. The smell of chlorine brought back memories of the one man who made him live after the war. Tall and elegant was this man, with strides as powerful as waves and with the purpose of the soldier that Dr. Watson used to be. All cheekbones and cheeky remarks, he was crotchety on the best of days and god save the soul who encountered him on a bad one. However, none of that mattered to John, the experiments he used to complain about, the clothes left about in the flat, all of it meant not a damned thing now that _he_ was gone. John wouldn't say his name, couldn't even think it on most days, too painful. Even, through all of this, this pain, the pitying looks, the calls to make sure he was still breathing, John put his best foot forward. He knew that the man would hate him if he gave in to those people even in the slightest. John only thought of this man as he stood by the pool in the sports center. The eerie refection of the pools chlorine infested water mirrored that on the one it gave that night. This particular day however, it was merely a reminder, a site to check off on a long list of sites where John and the man had nearly lost their lives. This pool was the first and last for Dr. Watson. The first time he met his best friend's fan, the first time since the war he was genuinely afraid to lose his life, it was also the last site on his list of sites, it was the end of his time with Sherlock Holmes. The man was tired, sad, and lonely, not that he'd ever admit to it. John scrubbed his hands over his face as he crouched next to the pool, he was so close to the surface, and he could see every new line and grey hair that had sprouted on his head in the past three years. Three years. It has taken the good doctor, three years to move through all or their major case areas, but that also included the month of depression he suffered after Sherlock had gone, the six month preparation John made to follow his friend and his three week stint in a mental facility. God, he was a wreck, he missed Sher- him more than he cared to admit to any living soul. The man known as John Watson sighed, he ached all over, his back his neck, his shoulder and of course his chest. It seemed as if there would always be a Sherlock shaped hole there that would perpetually bleed profusely. That was okay though, the hole, it was just another reminder on the long list of reminders relating to the late detective. Standing up from his crouch the good doctor moved to leave the pool and go back to Baker Street for a strong cup of tea with a hint of Brandy. In all actuality it was a cup of brandy with a bit of tea that made him feel like less of the alcoholic that he was slowly becoming. He snorted, at least he and Harry finally had something in common with one another. He'd judged her for so long and so harshly, now he understood, how easy it was, how he could simply slip away, if only for a short while. He was so sorry but he couldn't tell her that, especially since she'd been sober for nine months now. He'd keep his thought to himself and silently apologize by calling more often. As he made his way to the exit, John heard the sound of footfalls on the linoleum jus behind the doors. What would anyone be doing here, in the middle of the winter at that? John moved closer to the doors to leave when he heard the other set open with a dramatic swoosh, a sound that could only be accomplished by a handful of people. All of these people had common traits, genius, a massive ego and incredible taste in footwear. John could feel an attack coming on, no matter which one of them it was, an attack would happen. No relief, no happiness, just sickness. When he saw him, that impossible man, he almost sighed in relief. He'd rather be up against the criminal mastermind who took his friend away than the man who left him right about now.


End file.
